


The Court of Last Resort

by vandevere



Category: Law & Order
Genre: Crossover, Gen, The Star Chamber(1983)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6397603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandevere/pseuds/vandevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vigilantes in Manhattan...</p>
<p>Loosely based on "The Star Chamber(1983)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Court of last Resort

A Law & Order/Star Chamber Merge

_1995_

In retrospect, Jack McCoy should probably have attached more weight to this particular series of murders than he initially did.

But the first guy, Mickey Scott, was a rapist and murderer who managed to evade conviction for his crimes back in early '95.

He had been found dead in his apartment, less than a week later, sniped right through his bedroom window; and that sniper…

A real professional who left absolutely no trace behind, not even a shell-casing.

That had been bad, a killer had murdered his victim, and gotten away clean. But the victim wasn't exactly someone everyone mourned…

Then, just after Adam Schiff appointed jack McCoy Executive Assistant DA in the wake of Ben Stone's departure, another murder occurred.

Again, it was someone who was patently guilty of murder, and, again, the killer left no evidence behind; just a body with a single bullet through the head.

And, again, Leo Haney had been prosecuted by Jack McCoy, a man who freely admitted he hated losing.

So… _this_ murder made McCoy distinctly uneasy.

Still, the 27th's detectives, in this case Detectives Briscoe and Curtis, didn't seem to be taking any interest in him as a suspect.

At least, not yet…

Arriving at his office at 1 Hogan Place, early in the morning-he had picked up a newspaper on his way to work-McCoy leafed through the pages quickly; scanning the headlines before settling to the day's work.

_Damn…_

_A third murder..._

Edward Bellows…

Jack McCoy had prosecuted him too. He had put Bellows on trial for strangling his wife, and it had seemed to be an open-and-shut case.

Until Paul Kopell eviscerated the case. He had managed to get virtually all of the evidence tossed out…

Kopell was a friend of McCoy's from all the way back to Law School. But he was a Defense Attorney, and every bit as dedicated to _his_ job as McCoy was to his…

Edward Bellows, found dead in his bedroom, with a sniper's bullet between the eyes, and no evidence to indicate the identity of the shooter. Not even a partial print…

There was a knock on his office door, and Adam Schiff walked in, looking as grim as McCoy felt right now.

"You've seen the paper?" the man asked.

"Yeah…" McCoy patted the paper, the article lying face up on his desk.

"Not sure what I should do about this," he finally admitted.

"Detective Briscoe called your receptionist, Jack. You've officially been upgraded to a _Person of Interest_ on this case. You'd better find a lawyer. Don't even think of going Pro Se on this."

McCoy nodded. He knew the old saw about attorneys who had themselves for clients.

"I'll call Paul," he spoke dryly.

"Good," Schiff nodded. "He killed all _your_ cases. Maybe he'll kill this one too."

* * *

Detective Lennie Briscoe walked into 1 Hogan Place, headed up to Jack McCoy's office, followed by Detective Rey Curtis; and Briscoe felt really at odds with himself.

They were coming here to interview Jack McCoy, as a _suspect_ ; as a potential murderer.

It just didn't feel right…

But Detectives of Police didn't have the luxury of indulging their feelings. They had to follow the evidence trail; and that seemed to lead right to Jack McCoy.

All three victims had been prosecuted by Jack McCoy; all three victims were clearly guilty, and all three-in spite of clear guilt-had escaped conviction.

_I don't like to lose…_

Jack McCoy had been heard to say that several times.

Jack McCoy wasn't alone in his office. Paul Kopell was there too, standing behind McCoy as the Executive Assistant DA sat at his desk, and, again, Briscoe felt of two minds about it.

On the one hand, Defense Attorneys were _the enemy_. They got cases thrown out of court, charges dismissed, and perps acquitted.

But it also meant Jack McCoy was being sensible about the whole thing, taking appropriate measures.

"Detective Briscoe," McCoy was smiling slightly.

"Counselor, I think you know why we're here."

"Yeah...if you'll give me the times of the three murders, I'll let you know where I was at the time."

Briscoe gave the dates and times, and McCoy looked through his schedule book.

A notorious workaholic, it was pretty clear that McCoy's days were scheduled practically down to the very last minute, and yes, the evidence showed that, when the murders occurred, he was generally either with someone at the office-Adam Schiff or Claire Kincaid-or at one of his favorite watering holes, drinking with friends…

Briscoe was also pretty sure McCoy was a borderline alcoholic, and that worried him. But that was a worry for another day.

"Did you really think I could kill anyone?" McCoy asked.

"No," Rey Curtis spoke up, and Lennie Briscoe sighed.

From the first time they had met, a clear antagonism had arisen between Jack McCoy and Rey Curtis. The two men just didn't get along well…

"But our investigation of you isn't over by a long shot," Curtis continued. "The killer is a professional sniper, and you could have hired him."

"On _my_ salary?" McCoy raised an eyebrow. 

"You could...prove it...Counselor," there was plenty of challenge, and just a hint of a sneer, in Curtis' voice; and Briscoe sighed again. McCoy and Curtis really didn't get along well together at all...

That was when Kopell put a hand on McCoy's shoulder, leaned over, and whispered something in the other man's ear. McCoy whispered something back. Then Kopell nodded, and McCoy turned back to Briscoe and Curtis.

"You'll be wanting my telephone records and my financials?"

"Yeah…" Briscoe nodded.

"All right," McCoy nodded. "You'll have them by this afternoon."

When the records arrived, Briscoe went over the financial records with an expert.

Jack McCoy's financial records were the most boring records Briscoe had ever seen.

_Salary in…taxes out…monthly bills out…Hmm…Sumatriptan prescription…he has migraines?_

Lennie's ex-wife had those too, took Sumatriptan on a regular basis.

Everything in Jack McCoy's financial records, including bank statements, was accounted for, right down to the last penny.

His phone records, too, were utterly devoid of anything even remotely nefarious.

_McCoy doesn't have anything to do with these killings…_

Curtis looked faintly disappointed; but Briscoe felt nothing but relief.

_The Counselor can be an ass sometimes, but he's an **honest** ass…_

* * *

_What the hell were you thinking? We almost got an innocent man arrested for murder murder! Multiple murders!_

_Mr. McCoy hasn't been arrested, has he?_

_No, not yet…But if this keeps up, if you keep on killing perps from **his** cases, he could be…_

_Then maybe he needs to be more diligent in his work._

_There's no one more diligent than Jack! No one! Think we need to take a beat. Stop for a bit. We're beginning to do collateral damage here_

_Paul…This is a war. As surely as the war on drugs and the war on terror; there's always going to be collateral damage. It comes with the territory, and you knew that when you joined us._

_But…we almost got Executive Assistant DA jack McCoy arrested for murder. Surely, that's not acceptable collateral damage?_

_Paul..._

_No! Listen to me now! This...war was supposed to be about killing the sons of bitches who escape the law, and **only** those. We don't make war on innocent people!_

* * *

"You've been cleared, Counselor," Briscoe sounded relieved over the phone; a relief Jack McCoy shared.

"Thanks for letting me know, Lennie," McCoy smiled. "I owe you one."

"I'll be sure to collect."

McCoy put the phone down, looked over at Paul Kopell.

"I'm in the clear," McCoy said.

"That's good," Kopell sighed.

"Paul?"

Kopell was looking out the window, eyes, and mind, a million miles away.

"You coming down with something?"

"No, Jack…I'm fine."

McCoy sighed. Adam Schiff had taken him off all the current cases. The current caseload had been shared out between all the other Assistant DAs.

He picked up his phone, called Adam Schiff.

"They cleared me," he announced when Schiff picked up the phone.

"Good," he could hear Adam Schiff's smile. "Why don't you take the day, Jack? Get some rest so you'll be fresh come tomorrow?"

"Yeah…" McCoy nodded. "I can do that. See you tomorrow morning."

McCoy put the phone down, looked up at Paul Kopell, now standing by the shelves of law books.

"Adam's kicked me out for the day."

"I see…" Kopell nodded. "Since you're in the clear, my day is free too. Hows about we work off our tension with a game of hoops?"

"Yeah…" McCoy stood. "Let's go."

_Three hours later, at the local gym…_

A couple of hours of one-on-one basketball had done the trick; and now Jack McCoy felt pleasantly exhausted.

He'd done far better at scoring than he usually did; and that worried him a little. Something had put Paul Kopell off his game.

Both men showered and clean, they walked back in the direction of McCoy's office.

"You going to tell me what's bothering you?" McCoy asked.

"Hmm?"

"You usually trounce the ever-living crap out of me," McCoy tossed his green jacket over his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Kopell sighed.

"I'm not sure where to begin…" he paused on the sidewalk. "It's…tough."

"Paul…If there's some sort of problem…maybe I can help?"

McCoy turned to face him, and that was when _it_ happened…

It sounded sort of like a cross between cracking glass, and a bursting melon.

Paul Kopell staggered backward a pace, falling against the brick wall of the building, collapsing to the sidewalk.

Jack McCoy stood there, feet rooted to the ground in shock; ears buzzing, and he barely registered the screams and shouts of the other witnesses...

Paul Kopell lay there, in a crumpled heap, the brick wall he had been standing by painted red.

Blood…and worse... sprayed across the brick wall.

Paul Kopell's head…

McCoy stared down in numb horror, staring at the bloody ruin that had been a man's head only a few minutes before...


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Lennie Briscoe got out of the car, Detective Rey Curtis following.

They were met at the murder site by the lead police officer on the scene.

"Guy was sniped. Shot right through the head. Armor Piercing bullet. We're still trying to determine the shooter's location."

Briscoe looked over to where the body lay, a sheet draped over it.

_To hide the fact that the armor piercing bullet exploded the victim's head…_

"Any witnesses to the crime?" Briscoe asked.

"Quite a few, actually. One of them, though…think he's in shock. He hasn't moved, or said a word since we got here."

Briscoe followed his pointing hand.

_Shit…_

_Jack McCoy…_

"I'll see to him," Briscoe walked up to Jack McCoy.

McCoy was just standing there, white as a sheet, hands in pockets, staring fixedly at the M. E. working on the body.

"Counselor…"

McCoy turned his head slowly to Briscoe; numb shock in his eyes.

"There was this sound…" the attorney finally whispered. "Like cracking glass, and Paul…"

He shuddered, eyes squeezing shut.

"Counselor…Jack…" Briscoe gently took him by the arm, guided him to the nearest Bus Stop Bench, half afraid the man might faint.

"You okay, Counselor?"

"I'm better than Paul is right now…" McCoy's voice was shaky.

_Gotta love gallows humor…_

"We've figured out where the shooter was," Detective Stan Profaci walked up. "Top floor of the building right across…"

He pointed at the thoroughly modern-looking building.

"Couldn't be the same killer as all the others," McCoy muttered, and Briscoe had to agree.

_Those were vigilante killings. Unless the vigilantes are broadening their scope to include Defense Attorneys…_

A chill ran through Briscoe. The killer might have been trying to subvert or destroy the legal system…

_Fuck…_

* * *

Jack McCoy was sitting in Dr. Elizabeth Rodger's office. He still felt numb.

It had sounded like a cross between cracking glass and an exploding melon, and he knew what that odd sound was now.

_The sound of a bullet cracking Paul Kopell's skull open like an egg…_

He shivered again. He'd witnessed an execution before-lethal injection-but great care had been taken there; to remove all pain, to make the procedure as bloodless as possible. It was...clean...

_Sanitized..._

Paul had died instantly, the bullet entering the back of his skull...blowing his face apart...

_Anna's coming, will be here soon..._

Anna Kopell, Paul's wife…

Paul's widow…

There she was, running up, terror in her eyes.

"Jack! A Detective Briscoe called me about Paul. Is he…"

Her voice trailed off.

_She doesn't want to hear this…_

There were no comforting lies to be had here.

"Anna…" McCoy couldn't think of any way to ease the blow. "Paul's dead. He was shot."

"Shot? My God..." Anna gasped. "Where is he?"

"In the morgue. Anna…" McCoy hesitated. "You don't want to see this."

But, of course, she had to. So Jack McCoy stayed with her, holding her hand, keeping her steady when she saw what that sniper's bullet had done to Paul Kopell.

His head looked more like a quashed melon than anything human…

"God…"

McCoy took her back to the row of chairs at the wall and got her a glass of water. That was all he could do. He still had no words of comfort to offer. But he could tell her this…

"I'll find out who did this, Anna. I promise you, I'll find the bastard."

* * *

_Two days later_

Keeping his promise to Anna Kopell meant committing a felony.

Breaking and entering, to be exact…

Jack McCoy felt a little odd about doing this; sneaking into the building after hours.

But this was the building the sniper had used when he had shot Paul Kopell.

McCoy snuck all the way up to the top floor, armed with a flashlight.

Fortunately, the rooms on the top floor weren't occupied yet, so the empty office rooms weren't locked.

This room, a corner office, had all the makings of a CEO's Office, aligned just right to take advantage of the sun's light.

It was also the room the sniper had used when he shot Paul Kopell.

Jack McCoy had no idea why he was doing this. He was the Executive Assistant DA, not a cop, not a detective. But he _had_ to.

This time, it was personal…

So, Jack McCoy quietly slid into the corner office, at a little after three in the morning, and tried to look around, his flashlight making little pools of illumination to see by.

The floor was bare of everything, including carpeting…

No fingerprints on the windows…no shell casings…

McCoy's shoulders slumped wearily.

_There must be something…somewhere…_

He heard the sound of an elevator door opening...voices…the crackling sound of radio.

_Shit..._

_Police._

McCoy turned his flashlight off, tried to creep out of the room without attracting notice.

"Police! Freeze!"

He was right by the stairs, so he slid through the door, began to run down the stairs…

But he ran into a brick wall instead. A man-sized brick wall, a _cop-sized_ brick wall…

Slammed hard into a wall, wrists pulled behind his back, handcuffs snapping shut around his wrists, flipped around, a flashlight beamed into his eyes, blinding him.

"Aw... _shit..._

He knew that voice.

_Out of all the office buildings in Manhattan, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…_

Detective Rey Curtis looked McCoy up and down, and if looks could kill…

"Uh...hi..?"

Curtis pulled out his communicator, and now, he was smiling; the... that evil smile lighting his features as he spoke into the communicator.

"Lennie..." the Detective was almost purring. "You're not gonna believe who I just picked up..."

* * *

Detective Lennie Briscoe was in a foul mood.

_Why did the Counselor do this?_

Standing at a payphone, he dialed the DA's home number, knowing he would be waking Adam Schiff up. But there was no choice.

_We could keep Jack in jail overnight. Maybe that'll teach him to think before he tries a stunt like that again…_

But, he still had to tell the DA what happened.

_That we caught his Executive Assistant DA breaking into the top floor of an office building at three in the morning. Yeah…that's gonna go over just fine…_

The phone rang three times.

"Who the hell is calling at four in the morning?"

Adam Schiff certainly sounded grumpy.

"Detective Briscoe calling, Counselor. We have a…slight problem."

"Call Jack McCoy. He's the Night Owl, not I."

"I can't!" Briscoe snapped. " _He's_ the problem."

A moment's silence from the other end.

"What did he do?"

"He broke into the office the sniper used to shoot Paul Kopell. We have him in custody right now."

"In… _custody?_ "

"Yeah…handcuffs and all. So…What do we do with him?"

He heard Schiff's sigh.

"Bring him to Hogan Place. The back entry. I'll meet you there at my office. Don't uncuff him. If Jack wants to be an idiot, he can pay the price."

* * *

Jack McCoy sat in the back seat of the unmarked cruiser, wrists firmly cuffed together behind his back, and his arms and shoulders hurt like hell. But he knew he was unlikely to get any sympathy from Detective Curtis.

The detective was sitting in front, riding shotgun, and Detective Briscoe was walking back to the car.

He got into his car without a word, and started the engine.

"Where are we going?" McCoy asked.

"You'll see," was all Briscoe would say.

Fifteen minutes later, McCoy knew where they were going.

Hogan Place…

_Oh…_

_Shit._

At least Briscoe parked the car in the rear entrance.

Both detectives got out, then helped McCoy out.

It was difficult to get out of a car when your hands were cuffed behind your back…

Briscoe and Curtis guided McCoy into the building, to the elevator, and up…

_Adam's going to kill me…_

Curtis was the one who had the honor of knocking on Adam Schiff's office door.

"Come in…"

Curtis opened the door, and led the trio into the office; pushing McCoy forward.

"He's all yours, Counselor," the man said.

Schiff didn't look happy at all.

"Toss me the keys, Detective," he said. "I'll get them back to you later this morning."

"Yeah…" Curtis drew the keys-the handcuff keys-out of his coat pocket, and tossed them to Schiff, who caught them easily, and set them casually on his desk.

"Thank you, gentlemen," the DA glared at McCoy. "I'll deal with this…situation."

"Goodnight, Counselor," Briscoe herded Curtis out, and closed the door quietly behind him. Now, it was just Jack McCoy, alone with an absolutely furious Adam Schiff.

"Uh…Adam..?" McCoy was beginning to loose sensation in his hands.

"Stay right there," Schiff commanded. "I want to savor the situation."

There was nothing Jack McCoy could say to this. He'd screwed up good and proper this time.

Then, he heard Schiff sigh…

"Okay, Jack. Come over…"

Relieved, he walked over, felt Adam Schiff fumbling with the keys, and the cuffs released their grip…

Now, it was Jack McCoy who sighed in relief, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his wrists. Until he felt Schiff's hands on his shoulders, spinning him around…

"What the hell were you thinking?" Schiff demanded.

"Adam, I-"

"Not…one…word!" Schiff could roar quite loudly when he wanted to. "You _weren't_ thinking! I know Paul Kopell was your friend! I know you want justice for him! But you…are…not…a…cop! You're my Executive Assistant DA! So, leave the derring-do to the cops. _They_ do the slicing, and _you_ do the dicing! Got it?"

Still rubbing his wrists, McCoy felt exactly the way he did when he was a kid at school in Chicago, called before the Principal to account for his misdeeds.

"Yeah, Boss…" he muttered, bowing his head, feeling his face flush.

Again, Adam sighed.

"It's almost five in the morning," he said. "Go home, get a little rest. I'll expect to see you, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at eight AM."

"Okay Adam…" McCoy nodded, turned to leave.

"And, Jack?" Schiff's voice stopped him at the door.

"Adam?"

"Don't _ever_ do that again."

"Right, Adam…"

Jack McCoy beat a hasty retreat, grateful things didn't turn out as badly as they could have.


	3. Chapter 3

_My friends and colleagues, we have assembled together to mourn the death of one of our number, and to begin deliberations on an acceptable replacement. Do we have any candidates?_

_I know we put John James McCoy at risk recently, but he seems to be a perfect fit for the Court of Last Resort._

_Jack McCoy…eh?_

_He's competitive, hates to lose. He's actually one of the best DAs in Manhattan right now._

_Yeah…but he's one of Adam's people._

_Adam's getting old. He won't be District DA forever._

_We can take a look at McCoy as a possible replacement. Might be he could be the one we're looking for. But we need to be sure…_

_Yeah…Paul betrayed us. Who saw **that** coming?_

_Not I…_

_Right. If we want Jack McCoy to join us, first we need to see if he's right for us. No more stupid mistakes._

* * *

Jack McCoy was feeling a certain measure of satisfaction today.

The murder trial of Samuel Moody had gone well. Moody had been convicted of killing the man who had been embezzling money from his insurance company.

_He's going to spend the next twenty years in prison…_

Claire Kincaid had gone back to the office, to prepare for another case. But, for now, Jack McCoy could take a breath and relax.

He walked outside the Courthouse. It was a fine, warm, sunny spring day.

"Jack?"

Anna Kopell was there, a small box in her hands. She looked unwell. Circles under her eyes, she clearly hadn't been sleeping well these last several days.

"Anna…" McCoy gave her a hug. "How have you been?"

_Stupid question, Jack…_

She had been widowed less than a week ago.

"Paul left something for you," she held a box out to McCoy. "Don't know what it is, but it was in Paul's office, and it had your name on it."

She put the box in his hands; then fled quickly, leaving McCoy standing there, feeling faintly idiotic; looking down at the box in his hands.

At the office at Hogan Place, McCoy ignored Claire's questioning look, and closed his office door. Something told him to close the blinds on the windows too.

_Feeling just a touch paranoid, are we?_

Then, he looked down at the box sitting quietly on his desk. The name, _Jack McCoy_ , had been written in magic marker on the top of the box, and Jack recognized Paul Kopell's careless scrawl. So he opened the box, taking care not to tear the plain brown wrapping.

The box was just large enough to hold a tape recorder/player; complete with power cord and a light set of earphones.

_Just in case the batteries don't work. Paul usually tries…tried…to prepare for every exigency…_

There was also a tape, already placed in the machine; and McCoy felt chills up and down his spine.

_This could be a dying declaration…_

Carefully, McCoy plugged the machine into the nearest energy socket. Then, he put the earphones on, and started the recording.

_Hiya, Jack…_

_If you're listening to this, I'm dead. I've been a very bad boy; done some very stupid things lately. One of the worst was letting you almost get arrested. You've never heard of the Court of Last Resort._

_We all hate it when guilty people get off for doing bad things. It happens all the time; like when I got Mickey Scott off for rape and murder. If anyone deserved death, it was him._

_But I'm too good at my job, I guess…_

_That's where the Court of Last Resort comes in. We're a panel…Five Judges, five attorneys…and we…Judge, I guess. We look at all acquittals, and decide if Justice was served or not._

_What I'm trying, in my own meandering way, is to tell you I got mixed up in a very criminal group of vigilantes._

_Please forgive my stupidity…_

That was it. Nothing more after that. McCoy pulled the earphones off, staring at the tape recorder, at the tape that had just told him a great evil was lurking in the Hallowed Halls of Justice.

For a moment, he sat there, at his desk, and his mind was empty of solutions.

He picked up his phone, fingers hovering over the number pad.

Who could he call?

His fingers apparently did the deciding for him, punching out a quick series of digits.

"Lieutenant Anita Van Buren speaking."

"Jack McCoy. Lieutenant...I need your help."

"Certainly, Counselor. What's your problem?"

"Not here…" McCoy was almost overwhelmed by sudden paranoia. "We need to meet somewhere…secret. Somewhere safe."

* * *

"Thankfully it's a warm spring day," Detective Lennie Briscoe commented as he parked his car and got out.

"Yeah…" Detective Rey Curtis complained. "But why does Van Buren want us to meet her here, at the Park, instead of her office?"

"We'll find out when we see her," Briscoe looked around. "There's her car."

Window down, Van Buren sitting at the wheel.

"Get in, gentlemen," she commanded.

Strangest thing, Jack McCoy was sitting next to her; and he looked frightened.

_Angry too..._

Briscoe and Curtis got in, sitting in the back seats.

"Lieutenant…Counselor…" Briscoe made his greeting. "Odd day we're having."

"It's about to get odder still," Van Buren handed him a tape recorder, and a set of earphones.

"Listen to this, both of you," she ordered. "Then we'll talk."

Briscoe and Curtis listened to the tape, taking turns on the earphones.

After, Lennie rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Crap…" he sighed.

"Quis custodiet ipsos Custodes..." McCoy muttered softly to himself.

"So…something's rotten in the District of Manhattan…" Briscoe sighed again. "Are there any plans in the works?"

"Send Undercover in," Curtis suggested; and McCoy chuckled softly.

"Undercover wouldn't work," He shook his head. "This Court of Last Resort is comprised of Judges and lawyers. Cops wouldn't be able to get in."

"Then, how do we get…" Lennie stopped suddenly; the answer obvious in McCoy's presence here, in an indubitably secret meeting.

"No…" he breathed. "You can't be serious! The Counselor hasn't been trained in Undercover work!"

"But he _is_ a lawyer," Van Buren said. "Besides, he volunteered."

"That's…suicide!" Curtis objected. "No disrespect , Counselor. But you've never done undercover work before. I know they killed your friend, but-"

"Yes, they killed Paul!" McCoy snapped. "I was there when they did it!"

"Easy, people…" Van Buren spoke up. "We're all on the same side. And Jack McCoy is the only lawyer we've got that I trust."

McCoy nodded at that.

"I'll probably need to tell Adam-"

"No," Van Buren laid a hand on McCoy's arm. "You tell no one. I mean it, Counselor. You tell _no one._ "

"But-"

"I meant what I said about you being the only one I trust, Counselor," Van Buren's dark eyes were solemn.

"We have a nest of vigilantes in our fair city, gentlemen," she continued. "And we don't know any of their identities. We don't know who they are. I mean to bring them all down; and that means we'll all have to keep secrets from our nearest and dearest. Unless, of course, you wish to share Paul Kopell's fate, Counselor?"

McCoy paled at that.

_He's beginning to realize the danger he might be placing himself in…_

The attorney nodded slowly.

"All right…" he said at last.

"Good," Van Buren turned to look back at Briscoe and Curtis. "I'm going to have to come up with some sort of excuse for you two. I want you to keep yourselves ready just in case the Counselor needs you. If things go wrong, I won't want to have to explain that we lost our Executive Assistant DA through carelessness."

"You can put us on Desk Duty for the duration," Briscoe suggested.

"Yeah; I'll come up with something," Van Buren sighed. She looked from Briscoe, to Curtis, and then to McCoy.

"It's just us four," she said. "And it's up to us to keep Manhattan clean of the cancer of vigilantism. Even if it rises all the way to the top."


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting at the local Diner, with Jack McCoy; plates of eggs and toast on the table, mugs of hot coffee in hand…

The Counselor looked a little nervous, sitting with Lieutenant Anita Van Buren in the small booth.

The place was noisy, people talking, giving their orders, or chatting with friends; and the TV on the counter was going full blast too.

_Minimal chance of being overheard…_

Before coming to the 27th, Van Buren had made her mark in Narcotics; so-even though she herself had no personal experience in undercover work, she had managed several detectives who _did_ specialize in Undercover.

Now, here she was, attempting to introduce an attorney to the intricacies of Undercover.

Jack McCoy had the basic understanding that most Prosecutors did; that Undercover Cops went in and got the evidence in ways most other cops didn't.

_He's got some unlearning to do. And some learning as well…_

"May I call you Jack?" she asked.

"I was hoping you would," McCoy gave one of his rare smiles.

"Thank you," Anita smiled too. "Since this…Court…is killing people, it occurs to me that new members may have to…prove their loyalty."

"Yeah…" McCoy frowned. "I would imagine so."

"So…do you still want to see if you can get in?"

McCoy snorted inelegantly.

"There's no one else," he reminded her.

"True," Van Buren nodded. "So, what do you do if they demand you…prove your loyalty?"

"It all depends on what they demand."

"Wrong answer," Van Buren laid a hand atop his. "Whatever they demand, you _do._ No matter _what_ they demand."

McCoy frowned slightly, pondering her words.

"What if they want me to ki-"

"If they want you to kill someone, I'll find a way for you to fake it, if I have to. If they demand you kill someone, you say, _yes, sir!_ You do whatever it takes to earn their trust, no matter what it takes."

"Uh…"

"Look, Jack," she patted his hand gently. "If you can't hack it, I'll understand…"

"But who else will you find?" McCoy sighed. "It's got to be me…doesn't it?"

Now, Van Buren sighed. What McCoy had said was the truth. There was no one else.

_It has to be a lawyer, or a judge, and Jack McCoy is the only one I trust; the only one I know isn't part of the conspiracy, part of this "Court of Last Resort"…_

"We'll wait until we know what kind of tests they'll have for you. Then we'll figure out what we need to do. There's still the fact that you haven't made contact with them, and they haven't tried to contact you either."

McCoy smiled, bowed his head.

"I'm afraid to try," he admitted.

"So, what's keeping you, Counselor? This mission, such as it is, starts with _you._ "

* * *

"Jack? Have you heard a single word I've been saying?"

Claire Kincaid sounded exasperated.

They were in Jack McCoy's office, early evening; and McCoy roused himself.

_What did I miss?_

"Where were you, Jack?"

McCoy shrugged, tried to plaster a smile on his face.

"I'm fine," he lied.

_I'm not worrying about The Court of Last Resort. Nope. Not me…_

He sighed.

"I just had a fuzzy moment, Claire."

"Um…o…kay…" Claire looked at him. "You coming down with anything?"

_That was what I asked Paul, on the day he was shot…_

"We've been working on this all day," Claire said. "Why don't you go home, Jack? I think we're beating a dead horse anyway."

"So maybe a good night's sleep will clear things up?"

"Maybe it'll clear _your_ head a little." Claire spoke acerbically. "You've been…odd…all day."

_Odd…_

McCoy sighed.

_She's right. My head just isn't in the game…_

"Yeah…okay…" he _hated_ packing things in early.

" _Go_ …Jack," Claire urged. "You'll feel fresher in the morning."

"Okay," McCoy stood, grabbed his jacket and his Bike helmet. "See you tomorrow."

He didn't ride home. Instead, he took his bike down to the cemetery; to Paul Kopell's grave.

The funeral had been the day before, so the grave was fresh, and the scent of freshly-turned soil was still strong.

McCoy stood there, before Paul's grave.

_This is stupid…I'm not a cop._

When he was a kid, he had wanted to be a cop. But his father had other ideas, and McCoy Senior had prevailed, as he had in so many other ways.

_For better or worse…_

McCoy sighed as he looked down at the new headstone; praying to a god he wasn't sure existed.

_I don't know what I'm doing…_

That was when he became aware someone was standing behind him.

He began to turn, but strong arms wrapped around him, immobilizing him, a hand holding a wet cloth over his nose and mouth.

_A narcotic..._

The drug, whatever it was, quickly over-powered McCoy's senses, sending him down into deep darkness…

A concrete floor...

It was cold under his body, the feel of cement against his cheek. A touch of nausea fluttered in his gut, a slight pounding in his head.

Eyes fluttering open, he saw nothing. The darkness was total.

There was a whispering quality to the darkness; an alarming sense of being watched.

_I am not alone…_

Slowly, he pulled himself together, onto hands and knees.

Light switched on overhead. McCoy threw his hands up, shielding his eyes from the blindingly brilliant light.

Just ahead, he could make ten spaces; all but one occupied by a robed figure.

_Five judges, and five attorneys. That was what Paul said…_

McCoy pulled himself to his feet, tried to squint past all the glare, to see if there was anything recognizable in those robed figures.

"John James McCoy," a heavily distorted voiced seemed to issue from everywhere and nowhere. "Executive Assistant DA for the District of Manhattan."

McCoy cleared his throat.

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage," he spoke dryly.

"And so it shall remain for now," the distorted voice answered.

"Why did you…kidnap me?"

"We wanted to ask you a few questions. You have been heard to express…dis-satisfaction…with the Justice System as it is right now…"

McCoy stared up at the robed figures, each of the nine heavily backlit by blinding light.

_Is it going to be that easy?_

"Well…" McCoy kept his voice steady. "I've had several cases where I should have won; cases where the Defendants were clearly guilty, and I'm not happy about those."

"Mickey Scott…how did you feel upon hearing of his murder?"

"I approved," McCoy didn't even have to lie all that much.

_Mickey Scott should have gone to Death Row. He should have died with a needle in his arm…_

"Good…" the distorted voice spoke again. "We shall decide. We will speak again. For now, you must be patient."

He sensed someone behind him.

"That drugged cloth again?"

"Yes. Do not fight it."

He didn't.

"Hey buddy…" a booted foot nudged him in the ribs. "Cemetery's not the place for drunken revels!"

McCoy slowly pried his eyes open, feeling bleary, like he had gone on the bender to end all benders. He looked up at the uniformed cop bending over him.

"If you can get up and walk away, I'll let you go," the man said.

Thankfully, McCoy _wasn't_ drunk; although his headache was rapidly approaching levels usually associated with hangovers…

He got to his feet just fine. But riding his bike home…

That didn't seem to be the brightest of ideas right now. So he called a tow truck, and paid extra to get himself and his bike home…

* * *

_Well, my fellow associates, what do you think?_

_He's an arrogant ass!_

_That's Hang-em High McCoy for you…_

_Yes. But as to my previous question?_

_We should have brought him in from the first._

_Yes, we should have. He hates losing, always had this very competitive edge to him._

_But, how…loyal is he?_

_There are ways to test his loyalty. Bring him in, but on a strictly provisional basis. He'll have to earn our trust…_

_And if he proves...unacceptable?_

_Our...Associate will be detailed to deal with him, same as always he always does..._


	5. Chapter 5

_Note: Characters and situations in this chapter are based on the L &O Fifth Season Episode, "Scoundrels…_

Jack McCoy stalked out of the Courthouse, early evening, in a snarly mood.

_The Tappan/Curren Case…_

John Curren was going to do at least twenty years for his role in the murder of Arthur Kapinski. But the main instigator, Willard Tappan, who had all but admitted that he sent Curren out to do the job, he was going to dance away from the mess, free and clear; or as free and clear as he could be, given his own particular set of circumstances.

Tappan had bilked hundreds of clients out of their life savings, had gotten a term in the Club Fed. Now, he was in a half-way house, doing Community Service.

The money he had stolen; all those millions…

That was…gone; nobody knew where it was. Even Tappan claimed to have no idea where it had gone. McCoy didn't believe him at all. But there was no way to prove it.

The Judge presiding over the trial-Judge Gary Feldman-had had no choice but to exonerate Tappan of any wrongdoing in Arthur's Kapinski's death; which left John Curren to take the full brunt for it.

Jack McCoy had wanted to wipe the smirk off Tappan's face.

Permanently.

Claire Kincaid knew better than to try to talk to McCoy when he was in this kind of mood. She had said something about meeting a friend for Dinner, and made a hasty retreat.

McCoy was blessedly alone when he stomped into his office, the door slamming shut behind him. He slumped into his seat, loosened his tie, opened the lower left hand drawer, reached for the bottle of scotch, and the tumbler.

He needed a drink…

Then, he noticed the plain white envelope on his desk, his name printed on it. He put the bottle of scotch back in the drawer, and stared at the envelope.

He picked it up, handled it carefully. No watermark, or other identifying characteristics; just a plain white envelope…

Sighing, McCoy opened the thing. There was an unsigned note, typed, inside.

_Go to Paul's grave tonight, 9 PM_

Grumbling a little, McCoy crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash. Then, he closed the drawer with the scotch inside, checking his watch.

_7:45 PM_

Traffic was generally bad around this time of evening.

_I should leave now if I want to get there in time…_

In a way, he didn't want to. If he did this, there would be no turning back.

This could be the day where he fully committed himself to an action that might well see him get killed before all was done.

But, he couldn't turn away. The Court of Last Resort…

These were judges and lawyers; people who should have known better, people who had sworn to uphold the Law...

_9 PM_

He'd made it in time. There had even been enough time to grab a quick coffee.

_Hopefully, that will be enough to counteract any drugs if they go the drugged cloth route again…_

Standing in front of Paul's grave, ears straining to hear anything…

He heard the footsteps behind him; began to turn.

"Don't move," a distorted voice instructed.

"Yeah…" McCoy obeyed, shivering. He _hated_ not being in control.

"On your knees…" the voice instructed.

"What?"

"On...your...knees," the voice demanded. "Now."

McCoy remembered what Van Buren had said. Slowly, he knelt. 

He felt the barrel of a gun, at the back of his head.

His breath froze in his lungs, and his heart pounded. Then, he heard the safety click off...

He closed his eyes.

_Never thought it would end like this…_

After an interminable thirty seconds, which felt a lot longer, there was a sigh, and even that was distorted. Then, McCoy heard the gun's safety clicking back on again.

"You can be patient after all," the distorted voice said, and even through the distortion, McCoy heard the approval.

"Go back to your office," the voice continued. "I will leave you now. But from now on, you are being watched, Mr. McCoy. Remain on your knees and count to one hundred. When you have reached one hundred, you will stand, and proceed back to your office. You will find orders have been left for you. Do not fail to carry them out."

It never once occurred to McCoy to cheat. He counted all the way to one hundred, then stood, carefully scanning the area. No one was there.

He made his way back to his office, stood there, staring at his desk. Another plain white envelope lay there, pristine and undisturbed.

_Willard Tappan,_ the note read. _Kill him, or have him killed. He must be dead in three days._

McCoy stared down at the note in his hand.

_Lieutenant Van Buren was right. They want me to dirty my hands. They want me to be as guilty as they…_

Profoundly shaken, he walked outside into the evening. He knew where he had to go now.

There was a stand nearby. Even at this time of night, it was still doing good business, what with the hot dogs, sausage, and pretzels. McCoy wasn't really hungry as he swept his gaze around.

The nearby bench was occupied by a black woman, and most of the other people there were giving her a wide berth.

Had to be the wild gray dreadlocks that gave most people pause.

_That, and the hostile gaze of doom she's sending out to everyone…_

For form's sake, McCoy ordered a hot dog and soda. Then, he walked up to the bench.

"Mind if I share your bench?" he asked. The black woman shrugged.

"Why should I care?" she muttered.

McCoy sat next to her, sipped his soda.

"I'm in," he kept his voice to a low murmur. "They gave me my…assignment."

"What is it?" Anita Van Buren kept her voice low too.

"Willard Tappan…they gave me a choice. Kill him myself, or have someone do it for me."

"Which would be more believable, considering it's you?"

McCoy shrugged helplessly.

"I've never even handled a gun, Anita."

"Ahh…yes…" Van Buren nodded. "So a hired assassin it is. We'll find a way to make it work."

"How?" McCoy demanded. "They'll probably be watching…everything. I know they're watching me."

"I've got contacts," Van Buren assured him. "We can…disappear Mr. Tappan for an indefinite period of time, and he will be appropriately grateful once he understands _why_. Hell, Jack…we have access to people who are so good at creating fake corpses, they could even fool Mr. Tappan's ex-wife. There will be a dead Willard Tappan in three days' time."

McCoy nodded.

_This is it,_ he realized. _This is where I go down the rabbit-hole…_

The irony was rich. Jack McCoy would be saving Willard Tappan's life.

_Heavens to Betsy…_

_What a terrible idea…_


	6. Chapter 6

As part of his new status as an…undercover agent…Anita Van Buren had presented Jack McCoy with a very special cell phone; one of those rare so-called _Burner Cell Phones_. It was a thin little thing, could be easily hidden in the inside pocket of his green jacket.

"This is for emergency use only," she had told him. "Keep it hidden on your person. Also…if it rings, it's me, Lennie, or Rey."

In the bathroom of his apartment, just as he was done shaving, the thing, sitting by the bathroom sink, rang.

"Yeah…" he picked it up.

"Take one thousand out of your bank account," Van Buren spoke. "Go to Central Park. You will meet a Hector Morales. Make sure you are _seen_ , handing the envelope of cash to him, make sure any watchers see, and hear, you giving Morales the kill order. Tell him the other half will be payable upon Tappan's death."

"Uh… _who_ is Hector Morales?"

"You'll know when you see him…" Van Buren hung up.

It was early anyway. There would be plenty of time for McCoy to do this thing, to _secure his cover_ …

The thought of it chilled him. The reason for the money was to establish a paper trail, just in case anyone from the Court of Last Resort decided to check McCoy's financial statements.

_They'll need to see that I actually spent money on hiring a hit man…_

So, after dressing, Jack McCoy went to his bank, and withdrew one thousand dollars. Then, he went to Central Park.

_Van Buren said I would know him when I saw him_ …

The man was tall, slender, with wild, wiry, long black hair. He was wearing the kind of shades where you couldn't see the eyes, and that Fu Manchu beard and mustache combo…

_Rey Curtis?_

The man sauntered up, and it was true, that old saying, that clothes made the man. Leather jacket and patched denims, jacket open to show a thin tee…

The man looked like a thug.

"You're this…McCoy dude who called me about…a job… last night?"

"Ahh…yes" feeling awkward, McCoy thrust the envelope of cash at him.

Curtis... _no_ …Morales, opened the envelope, riffled through the contents.

"There's only one thousand here," he complained.

"You'll get the other half when the job is done," McCoy gritted his teeth. Even though both participants were faking it, it still felt all sorts of wrong; and that one thousand dollars really _was_ his money.

"Okay, boss," Curtis pocketed the cash, gleeful dark eyes peering at him laughingly over the shades. "I'll get back to you when the job is done."

_Lovely..._

At least it was done, the...transaction completed in public, just in case there were any observers

* * *

_The next day_

Willard Tappan, busy picking up the trash in Central Park…

Suddenly, things took a very curious turn…

Men in suits surrounded him.

The FBI?

These FBI agents hustled Tappan into this unmarked black van, the kind of van no one would even look twice at; and, in the van, there was this woman.

Tappan had met her before, the Lieutenant of the 27th.

_She's ordering FBI Agents around…_

There was more…

A mannequin, a _very_ lifelike mannequin, lay on the floor.

_You're fucking kidding me…_

The mannequin looked exactly like him; with one signal difference.

It looked like it had been shot through the head…

One of the 27th's MEs was there too, an attractive woman with red hair.

Tappan took everything in.

"Okay…" he finally said. "I'm game. What the hell is going on?"

Van Buren leveled her index finger at him.

"Bang," she said. "You're dead."

* * *

"Jack…" Adam Schiff didn't bother to keep the edge out of his voice.

"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"

He had called McCoy into his office to get whatever was bothering him out into the open.

The Executive Assistant DA had been acting oddly these last few days.

_If I didn't know better, I would say he was spooked…_

But Jack McCoy didn't spook. That was one reason why Schiff had appointed him EADA in the wake of Ben Stone's abrupt departure.

_That, and the fact that Jack's probably the best DA I've ever had the honor of working with…_

McCoy gave an awkward shrug in response to Schiff's question, handed a folder, full of files, over.

"We have enough evidence to Indict Abrams, but not enough to go to trial."

"So, take a little more time to get more evidence."

"That's what Claire said."

"You don't agree?"

"Abrams has plenty of resources," McCoy grumbled. "He could flee."

Schiff snorted.

"Claire's right," he said. "Wait, get more evidence to hang Abrams with. And stop dodging my question!"

"Your question?" McCoy's attempt at an innocent look was...pitiful.

"Yes!" Schiff snapped. "My question! What the hell is wrong with you? Last week, it was you getting caught by Briscoe and Curtis, and brought to me in handcuffs."

"It's not that," McCoy hastened to reassure him. "Think I'm coming down with the flu…"

"The…flu…"

There was a knock on Schiff's office door; and Claire Kincaid walked in, looking poleaxed.

"Willard Tappan's dead," she announced without preamble. "He was shot through the head while working at the park. No witnesses."

Schiff was looking at McCoy as she spoke, so there was no missing the other man's reaction.

McCoy flinched; face going pale at the announcement.

"Jack?" alarmed, Schiff stood.

"It's nothing Adam," McCoy ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I'm really not feeling well at all right now. Think I need to take the day…"

Adam Schiff stared at him steadily.

_What the hell is wrong with him?_

"All right," he finally sighed. "We'll talk tomorrow."

McCoy nodded, stood, and fled the room.

Kincaid stared at the door as it closed behind McCoy. She looked confused.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked. "He's been…weird…ever since Paul Kopell died."

"He won't tell me either," Schiff muttered.

* * *

_It's started. I couldn't chicken out now, even if I wanted to. It's too late for that..._

There was a white envelope on his desk, to McCoy's complete lack of surprise. The note gave an address in the Warehouse District, with instructions to be there at nine PM.

It wasn't even noon yet. McCoy took his bike home, tried to keep himself busy looking over legal briefs.

The rest of the day proceeded slowly. At last, the appointed time came…

Jack McCoy elected to take a cab this time, leaving his bike at home.

From the outside, the warehouse looked ancient…decrepit.

It looked just as ugly on the inside too. McCoy was loathe to let the warehouse door slide shut. The darkness would be total.

_No choice…_

McCoy stepped forward a few feet, let the door, screaming in rusty complaint, slide shut behind him.

"Very good, Mr. McCoy."

The distorted voice seemed to come from everywhere.

"Now, walk forward until you come to the wall at the back."

"May I have a little light please?" McCoy asked. "Don't want to trip on anything in the way."

"There are no obstacles in your path, Mr. McCoy. Please, move forward now."

Sighing, McCoy walked slowly forward, and the only sounds he heard were his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor, and the sound of his own breathing.

Moving cautiously, hand held out, his fingers now brushed against what seemed to be a wall.

"What do I do now?" he muttered softly.

As if in answer, the wall slid away under his fingers, letting light out, revealing a brightly lit elevator.

McCoy stepped inside, looked at the two buttons.

_Upstairs_

_Downstairs_

"Yeah…right," McCoy muttered as he pushed the Downstairs button. The door slid shut, the elevator started to move.

_Down the rabbit-hole I go…_

The door slid open, and Jack McCoy stepped out. One man was there to greet him.

"Judge Feldman?" McCoy stood there, eyes gone wide.

"Yes," Judge Gary Feldman held out his hand, took McCoy's hand in a firm grip.

"Welcome to the club."

Feldman led McCoy down a long hall, into another room with a concrete floor. The room was lighted now, but McCoy recognized the room now, with the ten seats, all but two occupied now.

_They brought me here that first time..._

He knew the other eight; judges and lawyers. Adam Schiff wasn't there; and a weight McCoy wasn't even aware of lifted from his shoulders.

_Adam's not part of this…_

Until now, he hadn't realized just how much _that_ possibility frightened him.

He knew all of the others; had thought of them as friends, and colleagues. Diana Hawthorne, walking up to kiss him on the cheek, slightly mocking smile firmly in place...

She had been more than a colleague, more than a friend.

"Colleagues and associates," Feldman was clearly the leader. "I bid you welcome John James McCoy into our select organization. It's time for the Ceremony of Admission."

"Ceremony?"

Diana Hawthorne went to a table, came back carrying a large metal bowl.

It seemed to be full of blood…

McCoy lifted questioning eyes to Feldman, who rolled his eyes.

"It's just pig's blood, Jack. Now, wash your hands in it. You committed murder today. By washing your hands in the blood, you accept your guilt in Willard Tappan's murder, and seal yourself to us."

Feeling ill, McCoy did as instructed, plunging his hands into the red stuff in the bowl Diana Hawthorne was holding. Then, hands dripping with gore, he was instructed to walk over to the bowl of water sitting on the table.

"You are sealed to us now," Feldman said as he poured the water over McCoy's hands, rinsing them clean. "By killing Willard Tappan, you have enacted True Justice, and that wipes the guilt of murder out. You are clean now."

_How very…Catholic…_

Then, in front of all the others, Feldman brought out an open Judge's Robe, laid it across Jack McCoy's shoulders.

"John James McCoy," Feldman intoned. "I now name you a member of The Court of Last Resort. May God have mercy on our souls."

Jack McCoy stood there, accepting all the handshakes, and the odd kiss or two; Diana Hawthorne wasn't the only female present.

And, all the while, a thought was running through his head.

_If they learn the truth, I'm dead…_


	7. Chapter 7

"Has the Jury reached a verdict?" Judge Gary Feldman was presiding over the case.

"Yes, Your Honor," The Jury Foreman replied. "We have. We find the Defendant Guilty, on all counts."

Jack McCoy, standing at his usual place, felt none of the satisfaction he normally felt upon hearing the Jury return a Guilty Verdict.

The Defendant, a man just now convicted of Manslaughter in the First, a Drunk Driver, would receive the maximum penalty for killing a pedestrian.

Judge Feldman would see to that.

_Judge Feldman…_

McCoy repressed a sigh.

Gary Feldman was also the leader of The Court of Last Resort.

He called himself the Chief Magistrate.

Feldman was a murderer, with at least three murders to his credit.

Of course, he hadn't done it himself. The Court of Last Resort had its very own hitman that it called upon to commit the actual murders.

Lieutenant Anita Van Buren was still trying to identify the hitman, but the evidence trail was thin on that count.

Whoever he was, he was _very_ good at policing his brass, leaving no trace behind; not even a partial fingerprint.

"What's wrong, Jack?" Claire Kincaid pulled him out of his reverie. "You _won._ "

"Yeah…" McCoy managed a rueful smile.

"Still got… _the flu?_ " she challenged.

"Ah…I'm feeling better."

"Jack!" Feldman called out. "Meet me in Chambers."

"Yes," McCoy nodded. He felt Claire's hand on his arm.

"Weren't we going out to lunch?"

"Yes," McCoy turned to her. "It'll just be a few minutes. Meet you there?"

Claire regarded him with a level gaze.

"Don't be too long, Jack…" she spoke softly.

That wasn't _Claire, his Second Chair_. That was _Claire, the woman who was his lover…_

Heart abruptly aflutter, he nodded.

"I won't."

After she was gone, heading over to Reilly's Bar & Grill, McCoy walked down the Courthouse halls, for Judge Gary Feldman's Chambers.

He dreaded the reason why he was being summoned…

When he arrived, he found Feldman deep in conversation with Judge Stephen Harrow, and Amelia Straker; also members of the Court of Last Resort.

"You've heard of the Christopher Case?" Feldman sat at his desk as he spoke.

"Yes," McCoy nodded. Sandy Christopher, found dead in her Apartment. She had been beaten, raped, and then strangled.

The case had been prosecuted by the up and coming Michael Cutter; and he was relatively inexperienced. Mistakes were made, and the Defense Attorney, Danielle Melnick, had gotten the Defendant, Sandy's ex-husband, Barry Christopher, an acquittal.

It had been Stephen Harrow who had presided over the case; and now, he was bringing Barry Christopher to the attention of the Court of Last Resort.

"We'll go into Session to Debate Mr. Christopher's fate at nine PM tonight, at the usual place," Judge Feldman looked up at McCoy with dark, intent eyes.

"I'll be there," McCoy promised.

"Good, see you then…"

Taking a deep breath, feeling ill, Jack McCoy nodded, then left.

* * *

Claire Kincaid watched as Jack McCoy entered Reilly's, stopping just inside to look for her.

He worried her. Really, he did.

_He's been so strange these last two weeks. Paul Kopell's death must have hit him hard…_

Kincaid had read the reports on Paul Kopell's death. He had been shot through the head with an armor piercing bullet, his head virtually exploded, squashed like a melon; right in front of Jack McCoy.

All things considered, McCoy had taken this remarkably well. But... _something_ …had happened the week before. Whatever it was, Adam Schiff had been royally pissed off about it, but neither he, nor McCoy, would say anything about what it was…

_Jack's been…skittish lately;he's not normally like this…_

"Sorry about being late," McCoy sat down at the table across from her. If anything, he looked even more distracted than he had before, and Claire wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled.

_Why won't you tell me what's wrong?_

* * *

Dr. Emil Skoda had no idea why Adam Schiff had summoned him into his office at 1 Hogan Place.

There didn't seem to be any serious murders that demanded his special area of expertise.

But, here he was, sitting in Adam Schiff's office, the DA, himself, serving coffee, accompanied by one of his ADAs, Claire Kincaid. Schiff's Executive Assistant DA, Jack McCoy, was absent, though…

_Uh-oh…_

"Are we here to discuss a case?" Skoda spoke cautiously. "Or…something else?"

"I'm worried about Jack McCoy," Schiff admitted. It was clear to Skoda that Schiff really didn't want to do this.

"Well…he did witness the violent, and very bloody death of a friend," Skoda said. "Has the Counselor done anything…unusual?"

"No."

"Yes."

Adam and Claire both spoke at the same time. Now, Kincaid looked at her boss.

" _Adam?_ " her eyes were wide.

Schiff sighed, closed his eyes as he sat at his desk.

"A few days after Paul's death…Detectives Briscoe and Curtis…arrested Jack. They'd caught him breaking into the top floor of the building the sniper had used to shoot Paul from. They brought him to me instead of to the Precinct."

Claire sat quickly.

"He didn't say anything to me about that…"

"No," Schiff snorted. "I imagine he didn't. Thing is…Jack's been…acting strangely. I know Jack. He's… _afraid_. Can you help, Dr. Skoda?"

Whatever Skoda was expecting to hear, it surely wasn't this.

"If he comes to me, I might be able to help," he said at last. "Are you afraid he might be experiencing…a breakdown?"

"He and Paul were friends, Emil."

"I know…"

Skoda hesitated, looking for the right words to say.

"Jack McCoy's a…Thoroughbred…" he finally said. "He's supremely good at his job; exceptional, in fact. But…"

Thoroughbreds were bred and trained to be racehorses, and they were…exceptional racehorses. But, when they broke…

_Broken racehorses usually get put down…_

He sighed again.

"If you can get him to come to me, I'll see if he needs help."

"Getting Jack to come to you…" Schiff chuckled mirthlessly. "While you're at it, you can wish for the Moon on a silver platter…"

* * *

Jack McCoy parked his bike a few blocks away from the Warehouse…

He'd already called Van Buren, told her what he was expected to do.

_Condemn a man found innocent by a Jury of his peers…_

"Vote along with the rest of your peers," Van Buren was implacable. "If they vote to kill Barry Christopher, you vote to kill him too. We need to get the hitman too."

So…McCoy guessed it was decided…

He made his way into the warehouse, went to the wall at the back, and there the elevator was, open and waiting for him, ready to take him down to the Court of Last Resort; and, how very pompous it all was, each member donning the black robe, and taking his, or her, seat.

"Getting cold feet, Counselor?" Feldman was speaking, and McCoy didn't rightly know how to answer that.

Cold feet?

_So cold, they're frozen…_

"Don't worry, Jack," Feldman laid a reassuring hand on McCoy's shoulder. "Let's start…"

The next hour was spent on going through all the evidence on Barry Christopher; the evidence that Melnick had gotten thrown out in Court, and McCoy had to agree, the evidence was…compelling.

Compelling enough for a reasonable jury to return a verdict of Guilty.

_But this isn't a jury…_

After the verdict had been agreed upon, it was time for the…Judges to render Sentence.

This was the last thing McCoy wanted to do. 

But, he _had_ to...

He heard each Judge down the line speak the Sentence.

"Death," Gary Feldman pronounced.

"Death," Stephen Harrow…

"Death," from Amelia Straker.

_Death…Death…Death…_

Down the line the vote went, until it came down to Jack McCoy. Heart in throat, voice dry as dust, he spoke the only word he could speak now, the word he really didn't want to say. The word he _had_ to say to preserve his status as Van Buren's…Undercover Agent…

"Death."


	8. Chapter 8

_Two days later_

_Ernie's Diner_

_7 AM_

Lieutenant Anita Van Buren felt like crap as she walked into the comfortable little Diner. EADA Jack McCoy was sitting at a nearby booth, newspaper spread out next to the untouched plate of eggs and bacon. He looked up as she approached…

He looked…frightened… and the reason wasn't far to seek. The headlined article lying face up right next to McCoy's coffee said it all…

_Exonerated Murderer Found Dead in Apartment Bedroom…_

"If I wasn't guilty before, I am now…" he muttered as she took the seat directly across from him.

"No, Jack…You're not."

Van Buren spoke firmly as the waiter came to take her order.

"I'll have what he's having," she indicated the coffee, and the plate of bacon and eggs in front of McCoy.

"They all sentenced him to death," McCoy swallowed convulsively after the waiter had left. "And I went along with it."

"Because I _ordered_ you to," she laid a gentle hand on his. "I know you're a lawyer, but, right now, you're also an…unofficial…Undercover Cop. Undercover Cops have to do all sorts of…unsavory things in the course of their jobs. They have to do drugs, they have to sleep with prostitutes. The have to break the law, they have to do everything they can, in order to catch the law-breakers.

"Did you at least manage to catch the gunman this time? Even a little trace evidence would be good!" there was more than a hint of desperation in McCoy's voice. She had had Barry Christopher put on Covert Protection as soon as McCoy had given her the word.

_Fat lot of good that did…_

"Sorry, Jack…" she couldn't hide the bitterness in her voice. "We almost had him. But he got away, and, again, no fingerprints, and no one saw him. Even Profaci missed him, and he must have been right on top of him. Whoever he is, he's… _good_."

McCoy nodded wearily.

"I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep this up, Anita. If I goof this up…"

He shuddered, eyes squeezing shut as he pushed his plate of eggs to one side, appetite apparently gone, and Van Buren couldn't blame him.

She had seen Paul Kopell's dead body…

Once.

That had been enough.

Again, she laid her hand atop McCoy's.

"We'll find the bastards," she told him.

* * *

_I'm telling you, Boss. She knew. She had a Protective Detail out, keeping watch on the guy._

_I'm impressed. All of that going on, and you still managed to tag the bastard._

_Yeah…I'm good and all. But I'm not going to take any more assignments until you…fix the problem in your house._

_Stan…_

_No! You've got…mice…Boss, and you know it!_

_Yeah…I know… It will be taken care of._

* * *

Jack McCoy still felt…out of sorts.

He'd taken part in the condemnation of a man, had spoken words that sent an assassin out to kill the man.

Now, he felt…

Unclean.

He shook himself. This wasn't the time to indulge in self-pity. He was…in enemy territory…

_Enemy territory…_

He was standing in Diana Hawthorne's office. Compared to his office, the place was downright opulent; with the heavy antique Mahogany desk, and the overstuffed chairs.

She had done quite well for herself after the breakup…

Not a hair out of place, and that mocking smile of hers that he knew so well…

"Very nice," he drawled as he took the office in. "Wish Manhattan paid me enough to redecorate my office."

"Please, sit, Jack," There were two other chairs, in front of her desk, and those were hardly less overstuffed than the chair at her desk.

"No…" Jack shook his head. "Don't want to get too comfortable."

He was remembering why he had broken things off with her, all those years ago. Even now, he could feel the attraction for her that he had felt then. But, even though he still felt that visceral, almost _primeval_ attraction, there had always been something else…

This feeling of…

_Revulsion._

Sometimes, as now, Diana Hawthorne made his skin crawl…

"C'mon Jack…" she handed him a tumbler full of scotch. "I don't bite."

"You don't, eh?" He sipped his scotch. His favorite brand…

"Well…" Diana drawled. "If you _want_ me to bite…"

"Diana…please. We're not together anymore."

"What's her name, Jack? Claire? I always knew you liked them young, but… _really?_ "

Anger briefly jolted through McCoy, and he downed his scotch.

"Claire's not a child!" he snapped. "And she's a damn sight more honest than you!"

_Or me, for that matter…_

"Easy, Jack…" Hawthorne held up her hands in mock surrender. "Your first time on the Death Panel is always the hardest. I threw up on my first time."

There was this…totally unexpected look of…sadness…in her eyes; and McCoy was thrown by it…

"Diana?"

"It's all right, Jack. You'll be fine."

But he wasn't…

The floor was tilting, and, quite suddenly, there were two of Diana Hawthorne standing in front of him. Vision beginning to blur, McCoy didn't feel the empty tumbler slip from suddenly numb fingers. But he knew…

_My Scotch…drugged…_

Abruptly, his knees buckled, and the floor came up to meet him…

McCoy couldn't move. Not even his fingers or toes. Lying on his side, he could see Hawthorne's stiletto heels as they walked over to her office door, and opened it; letting someone in who had apparently been waiting there all the while. Judging by the shoes, it was a man who walked in.

"Oh…Jack…"

Judge Gary Feldman…

Hands gently shifted his body. Now he was looking up at Feldman, who looked back down at him with accusing eyes.

"I trusted you, Jack," he spoke sadly, and brought out his cellphone, quick-dialed a number.

"It's me," he spoke into his phone. "That thing we talked about? I have a job for you."

Darkness began to settle upon McCoy, dragging him down. But, before the darkness claimed him, there was time for one last thought to shape itself in his mind.

_I'm dead…_

* * *

"Something's wrong, Adam," Claire Kincaid had just…barged right into Adam Schiff's office without even a knock on his door.

"Jack was supposed to be here so we could go over the Petrelli Case. He said he would be here at 9 PM. It's almost ten o'clock now."

Adam Schiff had to agree.

Something was wrong. Jack McCoy was one of the most punctual men he had ever known; almost obsessively so; and if he couldn't make it on time, he always called.

_Always…_

"Think something happened?" he reached for his office phone, dialed McCoy's cellphone.

It went straight to Voicemail.

_Okay…that's not good…_

He sat there, alarm tingling along his nerves. Jack McCoy's behavior these last few weeks, the fear Schiff had seen in him…the furtiveness…

_He's gotten himself into something; something bad…_

Schiff dialed another number, mouth gone dry. The phone rang twice, was picked up.

"Detective Rey Curtis speaking. May I help you?"


	9. Chapter 9

"Lieu!" Detective Rey Curtis poked his head inside Lieutenant Anita Van Buren's office door.

"Schiff called. McCoy's gone missing."

_Jack McCoy, missing…_

_We always hope for the best and prepare for the worst…_

The _worst_ had just happened.

"Get Lennie," Van Buren picked up her phone as Curtis went to get Briscoe; dialed a series of numbers she kept stored in her head for this kind of emergency.

"FBI, Surveillance and Trace. Jason Burkhardt speaking."

"It's me."

"Anita! What's up?"

"Jace…Our inside boy has gone missing. I need you to put a trace out on his Burner Phone."

"You sure he's missing?" she could hear the frown in Burkhardt's voice.

"Adam Schiff called. He's not one to panic without undue cause. Jack McCoy is missing, and probably in eminent danger."

"Okay," Burkhardt spoke crisply. "Give me the number, and I'll start the Trace. I'll call you as soon as it's set up."

"What happened with the Counselor?" Lennie Briscoe stood just inside her office, Rey Curtis just behind.

"He might be in trouble," Van Buren explained as the two men entered, Curtis quietly shutting the door as he walked in.

"FBI's going to trace his Burner Cell Phone," Van Buren continued. "But that might take a few minutes."

"I called him," Curtis said. "Both on his regular Cell phone, and the Burner Phone. Both went straight to Voice Mail."

"That's not good," Briscoe added.

_Not good, indeed…_

_Jack McCoy could be dead…_

It was only five minutes. But it was the longest five minutes Van Buren had ever experienced. She all but pounced on her office phone when it rang.

"It's me, Anita," Jason Burkhardt was speaking. "We've located Mr. McCoy's Burner Phone. It seems to be moving."

"Where?" Van Buren demanded.

* * *

Swallowed up by rumbling darkness...dreams, and nightmares swirling around.

_His Father, when the **Black** mood was upon him…_

_Hiding with his Mother, her hand gently caressing the back of his head as they hid in the basement, hiding from Jack Senior's rage…_

_The beating Jack received when his Father caught him kissing a black girl…_

Slowly, Jack McCoy opened his eyes, awakening to near total darkness. His head was pounding, his stomach roiling; and the rumbling was still there, all around him.

_I'm in a car's trunk?_

The positioning was awkward. He was sort of curled up, his wrists cuffed together in front; knees, shoulders, and neck screaming agony…

_Not dead yet…_

The car was moving to an unknown destination; and Jack McCoy was afraid of what was to follow when the car stopped…

Not that he really needed to ask what would happen.

He knew…

Damn it, he knew…

Heart hammering in his chest, he tried to take stock of himself, what weapons he had with which to protect himself, and the sad tally was…

_Only my wits, such as they are…_

The car came to a stop, and McCoy went still, ears straining to hear any sound. He heard a car door open, then slam. Footsteps coming around to the back of the car, to the trunk…

McCoy heard the sound of hands working the latch to the trunk, closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness as the trunk opened, letting the light in.

McCoy's eyes were open to slits, and it looked like they were in some sort of…parking lot?

Street lights overhead bathed the man who stood over the open trunk, and Jack McCoy recognized him.

_Damn…_

_Detective Stan Profaci…_

_No wonder Anita couldn't find the killer. He was hiding in plain sight the whole time; right under our noses…_

Profaci sighed and bent down, hand reaching under his jacket.

It was awkward, but McCoy kicked out, foot connecting squarely with Profaci's jaw, knocking him down…

McCoy hauled himself up and out of that trunk, as quickly as he could.

Profaci, cursing, reared up, grabbing for McCoy. Cuffed as his wrist were, there wasn't much he could do. McCoy grabbed Profaci by his shirt collar, and head-butted him. He felt Profaci's nose…crumple…under the impact.

Profaci collapsed, nose spurting blood, and McCoy ran.

He didn't get far.

Two bullets; one through his right shoulder, the other through the back, exiting through his chest, the impact of those bullets hurling him, face down upon the cold floor…

McCoy had never been shot before, never felt that crippling, burning agony.

The wall was nearby.

McCoy tried to pull himself up.

Profaci, enraged face bloodied, got there first.

Stars exploded in McCoy's skull, as he felt hands slam him, head first, into the wall.

"Ya fuckin bitch!"

McCoy vaguely heard the man's bull roar of rage. He tried to curl up, tried to protect himself. But the kicks to his chest, connecting with his ribcage…

All the air went out of his lungs.

He couldn't breathe…

"Police! Freeze!"

That sort of sounded like Lennie Briscoe. But Jack McCoy couldn't be sure over the roaring surf in his head.

He lay there, curled up, trying… _desperately_ trying to breathe.

Through a red haze, he saw Profaci on his knees, hands cuffed behind his back, helpless fury in his eyes, Detective Rey Curtis standing behind.

Lennie?

"Easy Counselor…" Lennie Briscoe was…here; looming right over him. McCoy felt Briscoe's suit jacket as the other man draped it over him.

"I can't breathe…" he whispered. His vision was dimming.

_Am I dying?_

"We've got a man down!"

He could hear Briscoe's voice over the thrumming haze.

"Get a bus!"

Then, Jack McCoy heard nothing…

* * *

Lieutenant Anita Van Buren felt ill. Physically ill. As if she might vomit.

_We never even considered that it could be one of our own…_

Standing in the hall, looking through Interrogation One's one-way window, staring at the two occupants.

Detective Stan Profaci and his attorney, Danielle Melnick. He had demanded a lawyer immediately upon being arrested.

Off to her left, Van Buren could see Detective Rey Curtis on the phone, and Lennie Briscoe, clothes still stained, with McCoy's blood, entering the Interrogation Room; Van Buren had never seen such anger in Briscoe before.

"Congratulations, Stan!" Briscoe's voice was ice cold. "You've just won an all-expenses-paid trip to Death Row!"

"He's… _dead?_ " Danielle Melnick was the one who gasped, face going gray at the news; and Van Buren recalled she and McCoy had been friends…

Briscoe didn't answer, just kept grim, coldly furious eyes on Profaci.

Profaci, for his part, went pasty white at the news.

He gripped Danielle Melnick's hand, whispered urgently. She was shaking, but she whispered back, the two in huddled conference. It lasted less than a minute. Then, Profaci turned back to Briscoe.

"I can give you the ones who hired me," he said. "Judges and lawyers all."

Lennie glanced at Anita through the one-way, and it was almost as if he could see her nod.

He nodded too.

"I'm thinking the DA's Office will see things more reasonably if you do that, Stan."

He leaned over, and Van Buren was suddenly afraid he would attack Profaci.

"But you'll need to give me all of their names," Briscoe put the tape recorder on the table. " _Every…fucking…one…of…them._ "

"He will," Danielle Melnick nodded.

"Good. Start talking."

So, Profaci did…

"Lieutenant…"

Van Buren turned at the sound. Rey Curtis was walking up.

"The docs at Bellevue say its touch and go, but they think McCoy's going to make it."

The relief was so strong, Van Buren had to find a nearby chair.

_Jack McCoy's going to live…_

Curtis looked at the one-way, at Profaci spilling his guts…

"Think McCoy would mind Lennie lying like that?"

"Making Profaci believe he was facing Death Row for killing him?"

Van Buren snorted.

"Jack McCoy would be _delighted._ "

She sighed.

"What's wrong, Lieu?"

"I still have to call Adam Schiff, tell him I almost got his Executive Assistant DA killed trying to bring down a bunch of lawless vigilantes that happen to be Judges and lawyers…"

Van Buren sighed again.

_That's going to be fun…_

* * *

_Bellevue_

Adam Schiff swept into Bellevue, in a towering rage

_Jack McCoy…_

_Critically wounded, shot by one of the 27th's very own detectives…_

A Detective who had apparently gone rogue.

Right now, Schiff wanted to strangle Lieutenant Anita Van Buren.

She had called him, told him to go to the ICU. So, to the ICU was where he went. He found Van Buren there, with two of the 27th's detectives. Briscoe and Curtis were there to guard Jack McCoy, who was still unconscious.

Anita Van Buren was walking up to Schiff.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"We've just…wrapped up a…undercover mission," Van Buren spoke calmly. "We were investigating…vigilantism…running rampant among the Judges and lawyers in the District of Manhattan. Jack McCoy volunteered to go in and gather information on them."

"The murders…"

"Yes…Adam. The murders. They were being committed by an agency that called itself, the Court of Last Resort."

"Judges…and…lawyers?"

Schiff felt pure horror at the idea.

_That a Judge or lawyer could so ignore the precepts of Law and Justice…_

Even more horrifying was the fact that he had missed all the signs; that he had failed-so completely-at connecting the dots.

_I should have noticed. I should have seen…_

_Jack did…He must have…_

"He should have told me," Schiff grumbled. "Why didn't he?"

"He wanted to," Van Buren laid a gentle hand on Schiff's arm. " _I_ told him not to."

"For God's sake, why?"

As soon as the word were out, he realized why; and pure fury blazed up within him.

"You suspected…me?"

"It's not personal, Adam. Believe me, it's not. But I had no idea who was involved in this. The only thing I knew for sure was that Jack McCoy wasn't involved. He was the only one I knew I could trust, because he was the one who brought it to my attention."

"Paul Kopell?"

"Yes," she nodded sadly. "Paul Kopell was involved, but apparently had a change of heart. They killed him, but he had left a tape for Jack; and Jack brought Paul's tape to me. So, don't be angry at Jack. He did what he thought was right."

"And almost paid for it with his life."

"And, if it had been you," Van Buren softly chided. "What would you have done in Jack's place?"

Adam Schiff bowed his head, nodded slightly.

"Guilty as charged," he murmured.

A few minutes later, he was allowed to look in on Jack McCoy. The man had been shot twice; once through the shoulder, and once through the back. Both bullets had gone right through him…

McCoy had been lucky, especially concerning the bullet through the back.

_One inch up, and he would have died instantly,_ the doctor had said. _Once inch down, he would have bled out in less than five minutes; and one inch to the left or right, and he would have died choking on his own blood…_

It was the broken ribs that had almost killed Jack McCoy. He'd been kicked in the chest by Profaci, and one of those broken ribs had punctured a lung.

Emergency surgery had fixed the problem, and McCoy was expected to make a full recovery.

For now, though, he was deep in drugged slumber, cannulas in his nose, wrapped up in heated blankets to keep him warm.

"The doctors say he's going to make a complete recovery," Van Buren said, as she stood by Schiff's side.

"Good," Schiff nodded. "Tell me one thing though. Did you get the bastards?"

"Judge Feldman, and his friends?" Van Buren raised a wry eyebrow. "Yeah, Counselor. We got each and every last one of them; and they're all rolling over on each other."

"Good!" Schiff snorted. "I think I'll prosecute them myself."

"I was wondering if Jack might want to have the pleasure, when he's feeling up to it."

"I know," Schiff nodded. "But, not this time. For being your...Undercover Officer, he gets to be a Material Witness. So he'll have to be satisfied with testifying at the trial. As will you."

Van Buren nodded.

"Go get them, tiger!" she applauded.

Schiff nodded, looked at his sleeping friend once more.

Jack McCoy had given him cause for pride more than once. Fearless in the courtroom, and brilliant in his understanding of the Law.

But Adam Schiff could never recall being this proud of Jack McCoy.

_He found a cancer within our ranks, in the very Halls of Justice itself. He acted to excise it; brought them all down._

"I'm still going to give you the scolding of your life when you're well enough to listen," he murmured as he took a seat by his friend.


	10. Epilogue

The trial of five Manhattan Judges, and four attorneys, prosecuted by the District DA himself, had made national, even international headlines. It had been a very public undertaking.

Everyone around the world watched, listened, and read, all the gory details, and no one was surprised when the jury returned the verdict.

_Guilty on four counts of Capital Murder, and four counts of Conspiracy to commit Murder._

The _Manhattan Nine_ were going to go away for a very long time, their exalted status notwithstanding.

The Good Guys, too, came in for a little more publicity than they might have desired...

Executive Assistant DA Jack McCoy was being compared to Frank Serpico, much to his unease. Due to his newfound notoriety, he was very much in demand for interviews, almost all of which he refused to do.

"I was only doing my duty," he groused at Adam Schiff over drinks at Schiff's favorite bar.

"You went just a bit above and beyond," Schiff sipped his scotch. "And you very nearly died for it."

McCoy managed a wan smile at the reminder of how close he had come to getting killed.

Several months later, his right shoulder still twinged occasionally.

At least the spasms in his right lung had stopped; although his chest still bothered him sometimes, when it got too cold.

He hadn't been allowed to prosecute the case against Feldman and the others himself, and _that_ burned…

He understood the reasons, but those were both legal, and political…

Jack McCoy had been deeply involved in the case; but not as a lawyer.

He had been working as an...unofficial Undercover Agent. Recusing himself was the only reasonable thing McCoy could do.

But Adam Schiff's decision to prosecute the case personally, had also been a political decision.

The DA for the District of Manhattan had to be seen bringing the members of _The Court of Last Resort down._

Now, Jack McCoy was sitting with Adam Schiff, enjoying a warming scotch, waiting for the Presiding Judge to hand down Sentence, later this afternoon.

The Presiding Judge was Linda Karlin; and McCoy was enjoying the irony.

Feldman, and his friends, broke the Law. Their victims were those _The People_ couldn't convict.

People called Linda Karlin _Judge Dread_ , when they weren't calling her worse, for her habit of imposing the absolute maximum sentence, rightly or wrongly, in all of her trials which ended in conviction.

Diana Hawthorne…

She was going to spend the rest of her life in prison…

As were the other eight.

Paul Kopell…

McCoy's throat tightened. Kopell's role in the whole affair had come out.

_I'm sorry, Anna…_

Anna Kopell had been horrified to learn the truth; that her husband had been a member of the Court of Last Resort, that he had voted death on three murders.

It was McCoy's almost getting arrested for those murders that had caused Paul Kopell to change his mind.

Kopell had been killed on Feldman's orders.

"Jack…" Adam Schiff's voice brought him back. "It's time to go back to Court."

McCoy felt odd, sitting in the row reserved for Witnesses for the Prosecution. But it had been fun to see Adam Schiff sitting at the DA's Station.

The older man had not lost his touch.

_The wisest man east of the Missouri…_

But now, it was Judge Karlin's turn.

She viewed the nine Defendants standing in the Dock.

"The very nature of your crimes is a perversion of all that is right about our Legal System," she said. " _Innocent until proven guilty_ , we proclaim far and wide. That is why our legal system is the best in the world. Because our courts couldn't prove your victims guilty, the men you killed, or had killed, were-in the eyes of the law- _innocent_. Because of your callous disregard for the sanctity of human life, each of you are sentenced to Life Imprisonment, with no Parole. You will each be sent to a Maximum Security Prison, where you shall spend the rest of your natural lives."

* * *

_Three months later_

"Feldman wants to…what?"

"He wants to talk to you, Jack," Danielle Melnick was standing in McCoy's office, a bemused Adam Schiff standing just inside the door, watching the proceedings.

"Well…I don't want to talk to him," McCoy slid files from the current case-a nasty one involving murder and blackmail-into his briefcase.

_Feldman can rot for all I care…_

"Jack…"

"What!" McCoy snapped at his boss. "He tried to have me killed! He had Paul killed! He had three other men killed! He can rot in hell…"

"You won, Jack," Schiff reminded him. "You can afford to be magnanimous…"

"I don't want to be magnanimous…" McCoy continued stuffing files into his briefcase.

"Just…go and see him," Schiff said. "You don't have to become his BFF or anything."

"B…F…F..?"

"What? You don't have Nieces, Nephews, or anything?"

"Uh…no?"

Adam snorted again, turned to leave.

"Just see Feldman. See what he wants."

"Yeah…" McCoy put his briefcase back on his desk.

"I'll drive," Melnick offered. "I can't believe you don't know what BFF means…"

* * *

Here Jack McCoy was, standing in the Visitors' Room, waiting for Gary Feldman.

Feldman looked awful in that bright orange jumpsuit. He obviously hadn't been sleeping.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," Feldman took a seat at the table.

"Why did you want to see me?" McCoy demanded. "If you wanted to make a Confession, you should have called a priest."

"I want to know why you betrayed us, Jack. We were doing God's work."

"God's work?" McCoy snorted inelegantly. "Hardly... You were killing people the State failed to find guilty."

"Yeah, Jack. And the operative word here is... _failed_."

"That is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?"

"Yes! Innocent until proven guilty! That's the cornerstone upon which our legal system rests! Destroy that, and you've destroyed the entire system. I'll be the first one to admit the legal system isn't perfect. But it's still the best we've got. All these checks and balances are there for a reason; and you seem to have forgotten that."

McCoy sat too, glaring at Feldman across the desk. Feldman glared right back at him.

"What about people like…Willard Tappan, Jack? He's back at Central Park, picking up the trash, like the Model Reformed Ex-Con he claims to be. He should have died, like the miserable felon he is. But you _saved_ him, Jack. You let him live."

"The People are patient," McCoy spoke calmly. "We can afford to be. Willard Tappan is under constant surveillance now. The Courts have approved our petition to look at his mail, and to record all of his incoming, and outgoing phone calls. We will know everything he says and does, everyone he talks and writes to. He steps one inch out of line, he's going back to prison, for the rest of his life."

Feldman shook his head…

"You don't understand," he began.

"I understand plenty!" McCoy snapped. "You decided you were above the law. Whatever justifications you might have used, _that_ was where you went wrong. No one is above the law! Not you, not I...not anyone!"

McCoy stood. He'd had enough of Feldman…

Enough of his pious, self-righteous excuses…

"I'm going now," he said. "You've had your say, and I've had mine."

Besides, he had a full schedule. There was that Murder and Blackmail case, going to trial the next day.

As for Willard Tappan…

Sooner or later, that man was going to trip up, somewhere…somehow.

And Jack McCoy would be there to catch him.


End file.
